


A Bolt of Blinding Light

by Achilles_Angst



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Action, Case Fic, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Ghosts, Locklyle, Lucy Carlyle POV, author is revealed to be a soft bastard, lockwood and co - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achilles_Angst/pseuds/Achilles_Angst
Summary: After the events of TEG, Lockwood and Co face their first big new case. And maybe manage to talk about their damn feelings for once.
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much to the wonderful Stormwalkers for betaing and screaming with me about these two idiots. She’s a star.
> 
> There are no warnings for this chapter, enjoy!  
> Author is revealed as a massive nerd for art restoration

The day we got our first proper case after Fittes’ downfall was a damp and rainy Wednesday morning. 

Autumn had set in with a vengeance, and I was glad to be inside the steamy warmth of the kitchen in Portland Row. George and Holly were bustling about arguing over what biscuits we should offer our first big new client, and Lockwood and Kipps were playing an idle game of hangman on a free patch of the thinking cloth. Me? I was content to just sit in the middle of it all, fresh mug of tea in hand. 

Lockwood pouted as his unfortunate hangman was completed, and leaned over to nudge me. 

“Excited about the new case, Luce?” I hummed in assent, and Lockwood gave me a softer, warmer version of his usual smile, the one I knew was reserved for me. Warmth blossomed through me.

I could happily have sat basking in his smile a while longer, but George took that moment to mulishly drop an oatmeal cookie loudly onto a plate, and Lockwood leapt up to give the sitting room a last glance over. 

I followed more sedately, pausing in the doorway to admire our handiwork. The walls had been repainted, and some of the books replaced. The sofa had been reupholstered. Lockwood had dug out some old contacts of his parents to call, and had re-adorned the walls with all manner of new masks, nets and dubious gourds. 

In addition to this, there were now several photographs in smart new frames hung on the wall. One was of all of the Lockwoods, in a charmingly chaotic family portrait. There was a photo from Celia and Donald’s wedding, their foreheads touching as they leaned into one another. Another held a picture ofJessica, smiling out at us.

But my favorite was one of all of us, clustered together under the apple tree. Quill, to my suprise, had a quiet interest in photography and owned a decent camera. He’d worked out how to set a timer, and we had eventually managed a suitable group photograph, now displayed proudly on the wall. In the centre of it was Lockwood, flushed from laughter and beaming, surrounded by us on all sides. It made me immensely happy. 

Lockwood himself was discreetly toeing one of George’s comics under an armchair. Evidently satisfied that it was appropriately hidden, he turned, smiling as he caught sight of me standing there. I beamed back at him. Despite the foul weather, the room seemed suddenly warmer. Maybe George had turned the radiators up. 

I looked back at the photographs, flushing lightly. In the group photo, you could just spot a glint of light at my throat, where the sapphire rested against my collarbone.

I was still hesitant to call it mine, aware as I was of the intensity of its history. 

The necklace was the first thing I put on every morning, tucked under my jumper like a protective charm. I kept it next to my heart, skin on skin. Sometimes, when I was dozing off in bed, I fancied that It was like keeping a part of Lockwood safe, held close and warm against me. 

I turned back to Lockwood, who was stood watching me, eyes warm. I flushed darker under the weight of his gaze. My breathing seemed suddenly unnaturally loud. My skin prickled, as though his gaze were a physical touch against it. On instinct, i raised my hand to my necklace. The door burst open. I’m embarrassed to say that I jumped slightly. When I’d recovered, Lockwood was focussing intently on the contents of the tray that George had carried through. When the doorbell rang, I was glad of the distraction. Entering the hallway, I found that Holly had already ushered our client inside. A tall, thin woman wearing an oversized raincoat, she strongly reminded me of a large wading bird.

Up close, she had a long, worried face, with dark hair cut in an angular bob that fell to only halfway down her considerable chin. As ever, I found her age difficult to guess. She had worry lines creasing her forehead, but whether those were from premature stress or old age was anybody’s guess. Under her soaked coat, she was wearing a grey and white dress that only strengthened her unfortunate resemblance to an anxious heron. 

We ushered her into the sitting room and into a chair. I ended up squashed between George and Kipps on the sofa while Holly poured tea. Lockwood had taken another chair; he was leaning forwards, eyes bright and intense. It was clear he was delighted to have a new case- few things made him happier.

Now fortified by a hot mug of tea, our new customer looked more at ease. She gave us a tremulous smile from behind her cup, and returned Lockwood’s handshake with surprising vigour. 

“Miss Jenkins, I assume?” Lockwood’s smile was a perfectly polished flash of white teeth- honed over the years to put customers at ease. 

Miss Jenkins nodded. “Yes, that’s right. You must be Antony Lockwood.”

Lockwood nodded cheerfully. “I am. You mentioned something about an impossible ghost on the phone, I believe?”

Miss Jenkins’ smile promptly vanished. She suddenly looked very tired.

“Yes, that’s correct. We appear to have acquired a ghost.”

Lockwood tilted his head politely. He looked welcoming and inquisitive, dark eyes sympathetic and warm. Even _I_ wanted to tell him my woes.

“We?” He said, prompting.

“Yes. I work in art restoration and conservation as part of a private company. We take commissions from private collectors, mostly. We specialise in conserving old oil paintings.”

George frowned thoughtfully. “You must have some defences then, working with old paintings? They must be common sources, surely?” 

Miss Jenkins nodded violently, nearly spilling her tea. “Of course! You must understand, we take the utmost care! Our paintings are kept in a temperature and moisture controlled iron lined vault overnight. We only work on them during daylight hours! The ghost doesn’t make any sense!” 

Apparently exhausted by this outburst, she selected one of Holly’s cookies and began fretfully picking at it. 

I and Lockwood glanced cautiously at each other. It was Lockwood who spoke up.

“Forgive me ma’am, but if this happened at a place of work, how do you know that there is a ghost? Can you describe its presence for us?”

Miss Jenkins inhaled hard through her nose. I was heavily reminded of Holly when George argued for the health benefits of doughnuts.

“Mr Lockwood, I understand that I have no psychic sensitivity. But I think I am _quite_ capable of being touched by a ghost.” With this, she drew one of her large grey sleeves up her arm, to reveal a patch of still faintly mottled bluish skin covering her forearm. 

We paused, unhappily. Kipps sucked air through his teeth, and George silently pushed the plate of biscuits further towards her across the coffee table. 

Evidently satisfied by our responses, Miss Jenkins pulled her sleeve back down and took another cookie. We waited for a moment while she ripped off a piece and silently ate it. George, still gazing woefully at the combination of oats and raisins, selected one too.

“I was finishing up in the studio, writing down details of the painting I’m working on. It must have been about eleven by then. I was just about to leave when I felt a sudden coldness.” 

Here she paused for an unhappy gulp of tea. We watched as she convulsively swallowed and set her mug down before continuing.

“I thought someone must have opened a window absentmindedly. We don’t normally have any open because our paintings are so sensitive to moisture and temperature change, but I thought Peter must just have forgotten.” 

Another gulp of tea. George nabbed a second biscuit.

“I got up to go and check, and I suddenly felt this horrid sadness, as though nothing was worth living for anymore. I felt as though- as though everything was pressing down on me so I could barely move.” We all nodded, recognising the classic signs of a Type Two Ghost-Lock. 

Miss Jenkins opened her mouth to continue, then stopped, hastily swiping her knuckle under her eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. It- I suppose it shook me up rather badly.”

Holly gently nudged our box of client-ready tissues towards her. Lockwood laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. George, Kipps and I contrived to look understanding. We were the picture of sympathy and concern. 

Taking a tissue and a few shuddering breaths, Miss Jenkins continued. “That was when this-“ she gestured at her ghost-touched arm “-happened. It was like this awful hand of ice passed- passed right _into_ my arm.” 

She shivered. “I was lucky, I suppose. I came to my senses, ran into the office. It has a big iron lined door. I stood with my back against it while I called 999. And all of the time I waited for them, I could feel coldness radiating from around the door at its edges. I had to wait pressed to the centre of it in the dark, feeling my arm get colder and colder.” 

She took a deep breath, and looked up at all of us. “I’m afraid it rather spooked me.” 

Lockwood nodded, gravely sympathetic. 

“That does sound deeply upsetting. However, you’ve given us a lot to work with, and we’d be delighted to take this case. I’m sure we can discuss payment once we know more about the haunting.” 

Miss Jenkins nodded gratefully, visibly relieved by our acceptance of the case. 

We showed her out, watching as she vanished down the pathway into the driving rain. Holly shut the door after her, shaking her head. 

“That poor, poor woman. That sounds awful.”

Lockwood turned from the door. He was grinning, electric. His enthusiasm was as contagious as ever. I felt excitement spark and kindle at the thought of another big case, side by side with Lockwood and the others. I couldn’t help but grin back at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to the wonderful Stormwalkers for both beta’ing and talking to me at 3 am about locklyle. She’s a star.

We quickly settled into our previous routine of preparing for a big case. George vanished for hours at a time into the archives, and the Thinking Cloth was quickly taken over by his scribbles. Holly and I checked through our supplies and dispatched Lockwood and Kipps to Mullet’s with a shopping list the length of my arm.

Supplies accounted for, Holly and I were sat in the basement checking our chains for rust and ectoplasm stains. I was picking at a particularly stubborn patch of rust with my fingernails when Holly delicately cleared her throat, a sound that evoked thoughts of a summer breeze whispering through trees. Had I tried to do the same it would have sounded more like a faulty car starting up.

I looked over. “Something up with the chains?” 

Holly gave a reassuring tinkle of laughter. “No no, they’re fine. I actually wanted to ask you about Lockwood.”

I blinked. 

“Are you and he...well, together now?” 

I fumbled with my patch of chain. It jangled loudly against the floor. “No! No. No. We’re just friends.”

Holly looked at me. “That was an awful lot of no’s there, Lucy.” 

I could feel myself going red. “No. I mean — we’re just us. We’re just—“

Holly sighed.“Really, Lockwood is very sweet but that poor boy is entirely useless sometimes.” 

I opened my mouth to protest this, but Holly swept on.

“Honestly, sometimes I could shake him.”

I looked at her with some surprise. “You could?” 

“Yes! I mean really. Giving you that necklace and promptly doing nothing else.” She shook her head with some feeling. “Men, honestly.”

I cautiously recovered my chain, and dubiously eyed the rust stain. “No man in your life, then?” It seemed unlikely. Holly had the looks of a classical goddess. 

She gave a rather un-Hollylike snort. “Goodness no. My girlfriend would be quite put out.” 

My chain clattered back to the floor. I winced as it landed loudly on the concrete. “Girlfriend?”

Holly sighed. She muttered something that definitely contained the word “oblivious” and something unflattering. “Yes. My girlfriend. I suppose I’ll have to pay Kipps after all.” 

“Pay Kipps?”

“Mmm. He bet me that there was no way any of you had noticed we were gay.” 

I considered this. “We?!”

Holly patted me on the shoulder. She appeared to be holding back laughter. “Yes. I’m afraid if you thought anyone could be a rival to you, you were rather looking in the wrong direction.” 

“I didn’t dislike you because of Lockwood.” 

Holly nodded solemnly. 

“Really. It wasn’t that. Well, it mostly wasn’t.”

“I’m sure I must have been a bit of a culture shock.” 

I laughed. “You were a bit.”

Holly picked up my chain, glanced at its remaining patches and began to loop it back into a coil. 

“We really must remember to do a full inventory check next month.”

I groaned. Holly’s inventory checks were legendary for both their length and their intensity. 

“Bagsie not checking the chains’ diameter again.” 

Holly shrugged. “You can count iron filings if you’d like.”

I stared. “You’re joking.”

Holly gazed at me solemnly for a moment. It was only when I gave a whimper of horror that she cracked, bursting into peals of laughter. “I got you that time!” 

There was a cough from above us.

“Are you guys busy gossiping or are you finishing up down there?” 

George was peering down the stairs at us, an angle that spared no detail of his plentiful and aggressively pink chin. I found myself looking straight up his nostrils. 

“We’re coming!” Mostly to save myself from having to gaze any longer up into the cavern of horror that was the inside of George’s nose, I leapt up and shoved everything back roughly into order. Holly followed behind me, tutting at my organisation and rearranging the chains to her satisfaction. We clattered up the basement stairs to find the others grouped in the library. 

Kipps was fast asleep on one end of the sofa, still wearing his jacket. Holly gave Lockwood a look of deep disapproval. 

“You let him carry a shopping bag, didn’t you?”

Lockwood grimaced guiltily. “He seemed fine at the time.” 

Considering the recent rearranging of Kipps’ innards, he was remarkably mobile. Having spent two months lying on our sofa losing games of Monopoly and napping, he had now been deemed well enough to go for walks longer than the space between the toaster and the settee. That said, he was still banned on pain of Holly from lifting anything more strenuous than a mug of tea. 

George flapped an impatient hand at Holly. His eyes were gleaming feverishly behind his glasses, and he clutched half a teacake in one hand in the manner of a famous general brandishing his sabre. When it came to gathering research, George thrived. He had even hoisted his tracksuit bottoms up to his ample waistline in honour of the occasion, which I was deeply grateful for.

“Prod Kipps awake, will you? I don’t want to have to repeat all of this.” 

I descended onto the sofa next to him and gave him an obliging nudge, ignoring Holly muttering about strain and pulled stitches behind me.

Quill cracked an eye open, and gave me a look of bleary disgust that was only tempered when Lockwood proffered the packet of pre-case chocolate digestives to him. 

“Cubbins amassed some notes, has he?” 

I nodded in assent, watching George flip through a notebook with frightening speed. Once he'd been let loose in the archives, woe betide anyone who got in his way.

Having located his page, George spun triumphantly to regard us. He looked over us, evidently checking that we all looked suitably engaged. I sat up straighter and jostled Kipps, who was dozing off again.

Apparently satisfied that we were a captive audience, George began. 

“I looked up Miss Jenkins’ company. ‘Polykleitos Fine Art Restoration.’ A few years ago they bought a studio space in this building, Metropolitan Wharf.”

He brandished a copy of a photograph at us. I nabbed it, peered at it. The building was a hulking, mustard coloured behemoth of a thing, crouched over the river Thames on an array of gigantic iron girders. It was not unattractive so much as agressively practical looking, with a vast array of blank windows looking out over the river like so many sightless eyes. In a word, it was eerie. I handed it back.

George shoved his glasses up his nose. “The building was started in 1862, but it took until 1898 to finish it. It was a purpose built wharf warehouse for shipping work. When the shadwell docks area went bust in the 1960s, so did this place. It fell into disrepair until the 1990’s, when someone had the idea of converting it. The planning was tricky for any renovation though, because it’s a grade two listed building, and,“—his eyes gleamed —“there was a fire there in 1973. Some people wanted to tear the whole thing down and salt the site, but being listed saved it. It was converted into flats and office spaces in the late 2000s.”

There was a brief pause while George consumed his teacake, during which I watched his jogging bottoms slide back to half mast with horrified fascination. Quill and I looked on with quiet alarm as they hit his hips and mercifully slid to a halt. We shared a look of mutual suffering before George launched back in.

“Polykleitos’ restoration brought a studio space in 2015. They're on the fourth floor, along with a variety of other businesses. No trouble’s been recorded there until now.” 

Lockwood blinked. “Really? Not after the fire?”

George shrugged. “It was out of use by then. A few firefighters got injured putting it out, but no horrific deaths that I could find.” 

Quill rubbed at his face. “Beautifully phrased as always there, Cubbins. Did you say Shadwell Basin?” 

George nodded. “Yes, did I not say? It’s in Wapping, opposite side of the bank to Canary Wharf. Which actually leads me on to my next point. Once I’d looked at the building itself, I looked at the surrounding area. Turns out Wapping was where they hung pirates until 1830, on a delightful piece of engineering named Executioners’ Dock. And,“—he grinned, clearly well pleased with the results of his research—“no one knows where the dock was.”

Lockwood scowled thoughtfully. “It’s annoying that our client doesn’t know what the ghost looked like. That might have helped you narrow it down a bit.”

George hummed in agreement. “Ah well, such is life. Intriguing location, though.” 

Lockwood nodded in cheerful agreement. “Definitely. We should ask Flo what she thinks of the place, it’s virtually her doorstep.” With that he bounced up from his chair, his interest in details evidently having run dry. “Well done, George, good finds. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m rather peckish now. Pre-case work always makes me want a good lunch.”

With this, he vanished into the kitchen. We all dutifully trooped after him, George leaving his notes in a pile on the side table. As I passed them, I spotted the photograph of the building again, its black windows staring up at me like empty eye sockets. I hurried after the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, Metropolitan Wharf is indeed a building in Wapping, close to where Execution Dock probably was. It is also gigantic and looks cheerfully ominous, which i do enjoy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up late with a starbucks* So it’s been a billion years, but hey, the author has uni applications due. Many thanks to Stormwalkers for betaing and ruthlessly encouraging as usual, she’s a treasure.

The day of the case dawned bright but blustery. As we ate breakfast, the wind rattled at the windows like it wanted to join us, along with a torrent of the first autumn leaves. We were anticipatory, restless, unable to settle. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed the thrill of a proper case, with the bustle and promise of excitement to come, with the camaraderie as we checked our duffle bags and filled up coat pockets with teabags and salt. 

Lockwood, unsurprisingly, was practically giddy with it all. It was difficult not to find his excitement contagious, but I found myself uneasy with just how keen he was to throw himself back into a case. I had hoped that after avenging his parents, Lockwood’s desperate fervour for dispatching ghosts would wane. Now, it seemed that that hope had been futile. I had thought that perhaps he’d found more to live for, that I’d helped to fill some void… but perhaps I had been projecting feelings onto Lockwood, exaggerating my own importance to him.

I was shaken from my rather gloomy reverie when Kipps arrived, prompting another round of arguments over whether he should be allowed to come on the case. Holly and Lockwood were staunchly against him going anywhere near any action, but after Kipps repeatedly pointed out that he could simply turn up at the right address and that none of us could actually stop him from doing so, they relented. The eventual agreement was that he would essentially be relegated back to a supervisor, sitting inside our main chain circle and handing out biscuits to the rest of us. 

We ate lunch in high spirits, a meal that George would have called a proper Lockwood and Co. spread, with donuts sitting in pride of place at the centre of the table. Holly had been indulging in her cravings and buying seeded wholemeal loaves, but even this minor blight didn’t bother us. 

The afternoon was a tense exercise in impatience. In our enthusiasm, we had done all of our preparation early, and found with dismay we had a yawning chasm of empty hours to fill before the evening. We drifted aimlessly around the house, completing minor tasks and getting on each other’s nerves until Holly started threatening to make us clean properly, at which point by mutual unspoken agreement we retreated to the library.

I curled into a corner of the sofa, tucking my legs up beneath me. Lockwood settled into his armchair, sweeping his hair absently from his forehead and opening a magazine with a graceful flick of his wrists. I’d selected a book and tried to focus, but I found my gaze drifting back up from the pages to watch the minute shifts of Lockwood’s fingers against the pages. They were a strange paradox, long and slim and elegant but calloused, covered in tiny starburst scars from molten salt and nicks from iron filings exploding too close. I watched the way they spread against the glossy pages, the way he lifted each one, delicate as any dedicated librarian.

I glanced down at my own hands, broad palmed and short fingered, with a web of scars and calluses to match Lockwood’s. Mine didn’t have the same easy grace, the gift of making everything I did look measured and significant. I caught myself wondering how our fingers might look interlocked, Lockwood’s long fingers wrapped securely around mine.  
Blushing, I glanced back up to Lockwood, only to find that over the top of his magazine his gaze was resting steadily on my face. My cheeks heated further. Lockwood didn’t look embarrassed though, or even surprised. There was something almost painfully intense in his eyes, something that kept me locked in his stare despite how badly I wanted to drop my gaze, embarrassed at being caught.  
With a start, I recognised the expression as something close to hunger, if hunger were softer and slower and sweeter. His gaze was like a physical touch — I could feel goosebumps rising on my arms at the ghost of the sensation. With slow, careful deliberation, his gaze swept down to my hands, which twitched involuntarily against my knees, to his, and back to my face. I watched him watch me, became distantly aware of my pulse racing in my ears like I was stood on the edge of the Thames again and Lockwood was waiting for me to jump.  
My hands felt hot where they rested against each other. I swallowed, and the noise was shockingly loud in my ears.  
And so we might have continued all afternoon, had George not taken that moment to blow his nose a wet honk that a passing tyrannosaurus might have recognised as a mating call. Lockwood jumped like a scalded cat in shock, and I buried my nose in my book, flushing furiously. George gave his nose a final swipe with his abused tissue and looked up, evidently unaware of the consternation he had caused.  
“Anyone want a game of Go Fish?”

We finally left Portland Row at about seven o’clock, strolling down to the tube station with our gear polished and glittering in the last dregs of the light. We took the underground, deserted due to the late hour save for a scattering of other agents and DEPRAC workers.  
Wapping was already very quiet when we emerged, still and cool in the evening air. Across the river, the high glass fronted buildings of Canary Wharf glistened, imposing and wealthy. I was unpleasantly reminded of the old Fittes building, now a pile of rubble and construction equipment. Beside me, Quill stared across at them, scowling faintly. We turned our backs on their shining bulk and headed along the riverside.

Metropolitan Wharf was not a hard building to find. Even in its natural setting, it had a hulking quality that was easy to recognise. In a well meaning if fruitless effort to spruce up the place, someone had placed a few boxed shrubs near the entrance, but they were dwarfed by the vast expanse of mustard coloured stone that made up the front wall,which loomed above us like a cliff face. Simply put, it was about as pleasant as the photos had implied. 

The inside of the building was jarringly different. On the ground floor, the walls had been painted a bright, austere white, the floors laid in polished wooden planks. Twee nautically themed decorations had been hung at strategic intervals, presumably in case anyone forgot their location during the walk from the door. George eyed a large anchor-shaped light with visible disdain, sniffing contemptuously. With our black salt-burnt coats and heavy boots, we stood out like a patch of dark mould on a ceiling. At the far end of the room was a lingering receptionist, lurking behind a vast wooden desk. We tramped towards her, Lockwood striding cheerily forwards.  
The woman eyed us dubiously from the other side of her desk. She had long, blond hair piled artfully onto the top of her head in a way that strongly reminded me of the time Mary had stuck her head into a hay bale as a child.  
“You must be the agency, then.”  
Lockwood beamed encouragingly. “That’s right, we’re here for Polykleitos Restoration?”  
The woman shuddered exaggeratedly. “Good luck. It was a nasty business when poor Marcia got touched. We’ve never had anything like it. Lucky to escape with her life, she was.”  
We all nodded solemnly. The receptionist shuddered once more, then seemed to remember her job. “Right. You’ll want the fourth floor. The studio is straight down the corridor and it’s signed. You can’t miss it. The lifts are over there.” With a vague gesture to the left, she promptly returned her focus to the contents of her desk.

The ride to the fourth floor was awkwardly cramped, George’s duffel bag wedged against my thigh and one of Quill’s bony elbows in my back. We burst from the lift in some relief when it glided to a halt, finding ourselves in a long, dimly lit corridor. In one of the rooms, a hoover was whirring, some hardy or underfunded cleaner braving the late hour. At the very end of the corridor was a large wooden door, surrounded by a narrow plate glass window. As we approached, I made out shapes in the room beyond—a table and a large pot plant were just visible. “Polykleitos Restoration” was neatly inscribed on a bronze plaque and screwed into the wall beside the window. In a word, it looked extremely prim and proper. But we all knew that the darkest of dangers could lurk behind the most unlikely facade. 

We paused on the threshold, poised to knock. Lockwood looked around at us all, beamed brightly. It might have been wishful thinking, but I fancied that his gaze lingered on me.  
“Well,” he said, grinning. “Shall we go in?”


End file.
